


i live in your light

by mightyleviathan



Category: Falsettos - Lapine/Finn
Genre: Canon Typical Misogyny, Character Study, Child Neglect, F/F, F/M, M/M, Mentions of Suicide Attempts, Mommy Issues, Suicidal Thoughts, Unspecified Mental Illness, We Need To Talk About Marvin, and run on sentences but like. it’s a creative choice, because who knows whats going on there, happy boys okay?! this is about happy!! boys!!!, lots of in trousers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:41:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24855505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightyleviathan/pseuds/mightyleviathan
Summary: Man of the household. Breadwinner. Head of the table. Sitting and smiling across from a plain but lovely jewish girl with a respectable family, and a happy boy about 10 years old that looks like he did at that age. Only this boy has a mother who cooks homemade meals and kisses him on the cheek, and a father who tells him he’s proud of him.Or, Family: an anthology.
Relationships: Dr. Charlotte & Cordelia & Marvin (Falsettos), Jason & Marvin (Falsettos), Marvin & Mendel Weisenbachfeld, Marvin & Trina (Falsettos), Whizzer Brown/Marvin
Comments: 41
Kudos: 62





	1. I - homesick

The girl starts calling him on a Thursday. He responds the following Sunday.

They’ve done this a few times since they first met four months ago. He talks, she listens. She calls, he dodges. He apologizes, she forgives. She asks what’s going on with him, sometimes he answers her with a kernel of honesty. Twice now they’ve had sex. Twice now he’s hung her out to dry after a tryst that made him feel sick to his stomach not because it was that terrible but because the nagging feeling in his stomach that it wasn’t what he wanted bubbling up to his throat in the form of bile. She puts up with it all though, for some reason. Saintlike. More so than anyone Marvin’s ever met.

She’s not the type of girl he’d normally go for. The others have been sharper, colder. They haven’t smiled patiently or waited on his calls. They’ve rolled their eyes, and let him chase while he hopes they never let him catch. _(He tries not to think of where the pattern started, and whether it started with soft, cold, hands gently touching his face and later holding the belt when he cried too loud for her to stay- or a shadowed face and words that built him up and tore him down.)_

He walked her home that first night because he could tell she wanted him to, and he had just finished his finals and was sorely in need of some human interaction. He liked her. She’s funny. Endearing. A little neurotic and needy, but so’s he. A strong head cushioned by a softer heart.

She looks green when she opens the door for him. Doesn’t kiss him on the cheek like she normally would, just sits him down with shaky words. Tells him how far along she is, that her friends don’t know, but her mother does. That her mother told her father and he is not happy. That her doctor doesn’t know the sex yet. She says it’s his and he wishes he could doubt her, but he knows the type of girl she is. He knows there was one boy before him who broke her heart after he ‘got what he wanted’. It’s only Marvin, who breaks her heart once every couple of weeks after getting what he pretended to want. The girl wants him to know she’s _not asking for anything._ But her telling him, that’s asking enough, isn’t it?

It’s when he notices that the gravity sets in- her hand, gently placed over her flat stomach in the way pregnant women always do in movies. Something is _alive_ in there. Something that’ll kick and swell inside of her and later cry and laugh and talk and maybe even look like him. Act like him. _God,_ act like he did as a kid, kicking and screaming and crying constantly waiting for someone to touch him with a gentle hand or at least notice. It didn’t work. He needed to grow up. He needed to be quiet. He needed to be normal.

So, Marvin was grown up, Marvin was quiet, Marvin was normal. He did his homework and did well at his piano recitals, studied the Torah (not because his family was especially religious, but because that's what good boys did). He stopped giving the nannies hell, let them do their job which- was not quite to _raise_ him, more to make sure he didn’t die. This phase lasted until he outgrew the nannies, and it occurred to him that when he kicked and screamed and cried, at least someone told him to shut up. Things changed somewhat when he hit puberty. He wasn’t sure why at first. It didn’t occur to him until years later that of course, no one paid attention to a little boy throwing a fit- what’s the worst he could do if he didn’t get his way? A man had power. A man could instill _fear._ The differences between the two manifested in more frequent dismayed phone calls from his mother and visits to child psychologists. The former of which petered out when he didn’t cease, leading to rocks in his pockets at the country club pool. His mom’s Ambien mixed with his dad’s bourbon. After the second short hospital stay, his mother told him he needed to _stop it with these childish pleas for attention._

_This girl, she wouldn’t do that,_ he thinks. She would hold her little boy. She would tell him she loved him. He would talk, and she would listen. She would be a good mother.

He’s never considered if he would be a good father. He doesn’t feel like he has all that much to compare to. His father went along with what his wife said, and stayed out of her way. He was an extension of her. Not a parent in his own right.

Man of the household. Breadwinner. Head of the table. Sitting and smiling across from a plain but lovely Jewish girl with a respectable family, and a happy boy about 10 years old; the spitting image of Marvin at that age. Only this boy has a mother who cooks homemade meals and kisses him on the cheek, and a father who tells him he’s proud of him while ruffling his hair. Teaches him how to play- … well. Maybe not sports. At least card games. Games of the mind, not the body. That’s where the Schultz men’s strengths lie. Marvin’s never had family traits. He’s barely had a family.

Maybe it starts with him. Maybe it starts with now, with this girl sitting across from him and gently calling his name pleading with him to _just say something, please._

It’s far from ideal. He’s only twenty, halfway through college. He doesn’t have a job. His parents pay for his tuition and food and housing, even if he is a theatre major. All of this might be too much of a disappointment. He has a feeling the financial support would stop here.

He can’t drop out. He couldn’t be the son who drops out of Columbia because he knocked a girl up. But he certainly can’t continue as he has been; if he wants to keep his allowance- which he’ll need more than ever. The girl’s family has money, but from what she’s told him and from what he’s actually _absorbed,_ they’re not as well off as his and are far more stingy and strict. His dad has connections and has urged him many times that it’s not too late to switch his major. If he switches soon and works his ass off- he might still graduate on time, and with a lucrative degree. His dad could get him a good job at a firm or a company straight out of school and maybe he wouldn’t be passionate about what he does- he won’t write the next _No Exit,_ and he sure as hell won’t star in it- but he wouldn’t hate advertising. He might even grow to enjoy it. He could be good at it. And that’s all he needs. A warm, loving family to come home to, and something that gives him purpose and pays the bills.

Her family is conservative, which means they’ll have to get married- the sooner the better. It’ll soften the blow for his parents, as well.

So, that’s it. It’s decided. It’s the right thing to do. The reasonable, responsible thing to do.

So then why is he shaking so much?

She cries tears of joy when he gets on one knee, tells her he doesn’t have a ring, but they can head straight to Cartier if that’s what she wants. Her smile is relieved and terrified and hopeful. She really is beautiful.

Marvin feels nothing

* * *

The tuxedo hangs loosely around his waist. He just got it tailored a few weeks ago. He’s barely eaten lately, his appetite for _anything_ out the window. It shows.

It’s not a small affair, nor is it a huge one. It’s a surprisingly big turnout for what is essentially a shotgun wedding. He has to say, the girl’s parents did a great job at planning. Gossip permeates the perfumed air of the temple, but it’s all speculation. As far as anyone can tell, it’s been planned far in advance, and they just waited to send the invitations. And what the skirt of her dress doesn’t hide, a well-placed bouquet will.

His parents have invited most of the same characters that came to his Bar Mitzvah; which has more of a networking event and boasting of funds than it was anything else. It’s all the families that have known his through work and wealth for decades. This; oddly enough includes his high school girlfriend and her family, whom he hasn’t particularly enjoyed spending time with, in recent years. She, in turn, grew to hate him most of the time as well. The girl _(His girl. Fiancée. Wife.)_ will surely follow suit soon enough.

His ex was kind enough to bring him a (partially empty) bottle of expensive whiskey as a wedding present. He lies and tells her that she looks nice, and tries not to linger on the mascara slightly smeared under her eyes. She doesn’t extend the same courtesy to him, simply looks through him and hands him the bottle, cap off. Their families were so disappointed when they broke up. They were close friends, once. Everyone expected them to marry when they were older. Based on her appearance today, she did as well. She gingerly pats his back when he vomits in the sink of the men’s bathroom and flees not long thereafter. She grimaces when he thanks her for coming. He tries to call for her only to find he can’t remember her name. His head swims so violently he thinks he might fall over if he weren’t already sitting on the cold tile. He lays there until his father knocks on the door and tells him everyone is waiting. He’s kind enough to escort Marvin on his death march, though he probably just does it to make sure he won’t get the chance to flee.

The girl cries when she reads her vows. He can’t remember what he says. He kisses her so softly, so tactfully he can barely feel it. The contract is sealed, the glass is shattered, and she pretends not to notice the sting of his breath on her face.

He pretends to drink even more at the reception, trips over his feet on the way to their rented room for the third night they’ll spend together. He starts to snore as soon as his body hits the bed. She sighs dejectedly and changes into the expensive lingerie he saw her pack for tonight- a gift from her friends- before turning off the light and crawling into bed. When he thinks she’s asleep, Marvin lets himself open his eyes.

Once they’ve adjusted to the dark, he looks at the girl. The wife. _His wife_. She’s pretty. Plain, but still. They get along. They share the same values. She's funny, fairly smart, and comes from a good family with money, but isn’t a snob. Jewish. A good woman. She checks off so many boxes. Everything he’s been saying he’s wanted in a partner but _just can’t seem to find,_ or so he’s told his parents.

So why does he feel like this is the worst day of his life?

_(You know why,_ a familiar low voice says in his ear. _We’re the same. And I knew from the moment I laid eyes on you. Even if you refuse to admit it to yourself._ She doesn’t know anything.

She knows everything. He loved her and was terrified of her and how she saw through every part of him and let no one see any part of her.)

He doesn’t love the girl, but he’ll try. And if he fails-

Well. He might get good use of his acting experience after all. He thanks the voice in his head.

* * *

He doesn’t understand why women are so into this whole natural birth thing.

She has been groaning and whitening her knuckles around his wrist for hours now. She seemed to have regretted her choice to forgo the epidural immediately, but too late into the process for her to actually get one. He strokes her sweaty hair because _that’s what he’s supposed to do, right?_ while pretending he isn’t regretting being born himself.

She’s getting louder now, and the actual doctor is here and that means it’s almost over which means he is about to have a child to take care of and _what the fuck was he thinking?_ He doesn’t know anything about children, he’s an only child. He never even _babysat._ He’s married to a woman he barely knows, has lived with for a very short amount of time that has mostly been spent studying, both for school (in his case, she suspended her own degree) and for this, _and_ for the _aftermath_ of this which is going to be the rest of his life. Soon he will no longer be just a twenty-one-year-old ivy league student- he will be a _father,_ first and foremost. The bar is going to be raised so much higher than it already was. This _person_ won’t be the person who will love him and never be able to leave him, like he’s always wanted, _no._ He will be yet another person for Marvin to disappoint, _that’s all I am and all I’ve ever been. It’s all I’ll ever be,_ he thinks as his wife screams louder and louder, and he thinks the doctor is saying something to him but he doesn’t hear him speak, just hears the screaming and taunting and _god this is gross that’s so much blood, is that normal? It has to be normal._ Oh _God,_ how was he so fucking stupid to think he wanted this, to think he _should_ want this, why did he-

The screaming stops, the voices stop, the taunting stops. The only thing coming through the white fuzz is a cry. A loud one, which is _good, that’s a good thing,_ but it’s still a cry and his heart breaks, _truly_ breaks for what Marvin’s pretty sure is the first time in his life, and at the same time it explodes into nothing and in his chest grows a new organ that’s trying to burst out of his chest plate, like a plant that’s outgrown its pot. Only the singular purpose of this new heart is to respond to the demands of this ugly, red, slimy thing in front of him. The thing that’s being extended in front of him as he’s handed scissors to separate him from Trina who he wishes he could tell her the kid looks like, but the kid doesn’t look like anything except a giant naked mole-rat and then- they carry him to the other side of the room and he’s gone and Marvin can’t see him and he feels like he will die if he doesn’t get his eyes on the thing within the next thirty seconds and thankfully he doesn’t have to because there he is except he’s wearing a little hat, _oh my god, it’s such a small hat how could a head be that small how-_

The first time Marvin holds his son in his arms, he doesn’t ever want to move again. But Trina is giving him a death glare through her tears and is holding her arms out and he wants to live to see his son’s first steps and _oh my god_ Marvin has a _son,_ who will walk and talk and have interests, some he’ll share with Marvin and some entirely his own. It physically hurts to hand him over but when he sees the look on Trina’s face as she holds him he thinks for the first time he might actually love her because of the mirror image of what he’s feeling right now reflected in her eyes. They _made_ this thing. Not thing- _Him,_ a real human person who is breathing and crying and has the tiniest hands Marvin has ever seen in his life and he’s a little sticky still but _perfect._ He doesn’t think he’s ever been happier. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt more broken.

The nurses ask if they have a name. Trina looks at him wide-eyed and he nods at her, letting her answer. He picks the middle name, she gets first. She sounds decisive when she answers, which a word he’d never thought he’d use to describe her.

_“Jason.”_

He puts an arm around her to get closer to him; and for the first time in his life, Marvin doesn’t regret anything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ 2:28 ](https://youtu.be/l02sUGVZlgk)  
> i’ve been wanting to write something else for falsettos for a while now but just haven’t been struck by an idea that i’ve felt really compelled to write. but i was thinking about marvin this father’s day (as i do most days) and specifically about his Dad Feelings and threw this together. it’s based very heavily off of in trousers canon, as well as my interpretation of the line “i only wanted to see my face in yours” from i never wanted to love you. which, in my mind is not a display of pure narcissism, but rather speaks to his motivation, wanting to give jason the childhood he always wanted, and live vicariously through him. title comes from the song fathers first spring by the avett brothers, which didn’t inspire this fic but it is a very sweet song by a great band about dad feelings that i highly recommend listening to
> 
> with that little explanation out of the way, thank you all for reading, i hope there aren't too many grammatical errors since i didn't proof read that closely. every kudos is appreciated, and comments are so encouraging and make me want to write more. i might make a part two the encroaches on falsettos canon, but no promises. 
> 
> i’m also considering taking prompts, if that’s something anyone is interested in, let me know!
> 
> i hope whoever is reading this is having a good day, and black lives matter


	2. II - i want, i want

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: suicide ideation + body horror

Trina thinks he’s a saint for doing this, getting up in the middle of the night when the kid cries, staying with him until he falls asleep and after- just in case he wakes up. She thinks he does it to ease her stress because she takes care of him during the rest of the day. Out of the goodness of his own heart. She doesn’t need to know that Marvin has never slept well. She doesn’t need to know that at least now when he gets like this. When the exhaustion creeps past the boundaries of normal fatigue and into the itchy weariness of insomnia; he’s in good company. Company that weighs heavy in his shoulder and shakes with frustrated sobs, as opposed to company that holds him a little too tight, and gently runs her toenails against his calf as he lays there trying to quiet his brain.

He is- by some miracle- Jason’s preferred bedtime orchestrator. Trina outshines him in every other sense as a parent, is preferred for comfort and care in the innate way many mothers are. Only known to the baby as _home;_ as soft hands and a soft voice, all cloaked in sweet perfume. Her charms are undermined and overridden at bedtime by the manic anxiety that thrums under the surface of her skin, tension and fatigue permeating, and seeping through to the kid when she attempts to rock him to sleep. So instead Jason gets him, and whatever comforting benefits he sees in Marvin as _dad._ _Messy hair, dark circles, and old t-shirts?_ His steady hand only holds so much power, though. Sometimes a baby needs to cry and scream, and there’s no amount of shushing and car rides around the block that can help.

So Marvin leans back in the creaky desk chair of his makeshift office, holds on, and softly hums a melody he doesn’t recognize and or even registers as manifests in his throat, corrupting a normal breath. He hums and rocks absently for hours, ignoring the faint blue light coming through the window, ignoring the burn of the muscles in his right arm, a casualty of his hand running up and down Jason’s back soothingly until the screams dissolve into hysterical, exhausted gasps. The closing statement of his hours-long debate with existence. His little face rubs itself, red and sticky against Marvin’s shoulder. He breathes deeply and slowly to encourage him to do the same. _“There we go, kiddo. There we go. All done, we heard you.”_ he murmurs as he gently strokes the back of his head. He breathes into the crook of Marvin’s neck, slower and deeper until finally he feels the little hand relax the grip it had on him, stretching the cotton neck of his t-shirt. He inhales the soft, short curls, and holds on a little tighter.

She takes a picture when she finds them in the morning. When the picture is printed, she puts it in the album with the many others like it. Same scene, different places. On the back, her neat, curving script simply says _My boys,_ followed by the date.

* * *

Marvin wishes there were fathers he could compare himself to, ask how he’s doing.

Ask if it’s normal to be this terrified of your own child.

When he first started to crawl, Marvin was panicked any time he didn’t have his eyes on the kid. Was there an outlet he didn’t cover, a cabinet he forgot to lock? Walking led to more of the same preoccupying terror, only amplified. Of course, it’s good- it means his bones and brain and functioning well, it means he’s healthy. Only, good health leads to the possibility of not-so-good health. More fine motor skills equal more independence, more opportunities for him to get hurt.

When it came to speaking, the fear was different.

Words neither Marvin nor Trina remembers teaching him. Words that he’s already using against them. He thought (feared) Jason might inherit some of the tactics and behaviors of his own childhood, and he was right. Only he implements them _differently._ He carefully watches, with big brown eyes for their reactions, to see what works and what doesn’t. He screams when he knows they’re tired, and cries when he knows they’re feeling soft. He’s not even four yet, and he makes Marvin feel _dumb,_ just with his gaze. When he finally learns how to pee in a toilet by himself and leave the house, god knows what he could do with that power. Run the world, probably.

They discuss him with hushed voices, make plans, forge new alliances against him to make sure he gets outsmarted. Convene to make sure they’re not going crazy, that he’s as special as they think he is. Sure, every parent thinks their kid is special- but those parents haven’t compared their sticky-fingered gremlin to _his,_ yet _._ The fear both for and of him is all-consuming. Through his head runs a constant stream of worst-case scenarios. Like the day he came home from the store to find Trina hysterically crying on the floor of the kitchen, right after he had turned two.

_She looks so similar to Jason after he’s thrown a fit_ , _is his first thought. Her cheeks are mottled with red patches, breaths heaving as she chokes on her own snot. Before he can even ask her what’s wrong, she answers with a choked sob and vague gesture towards the stairs. And- for a second every worst fear is true, he drowned in the bathtub, he got over the gate and fell, Marvin put the crib together wrong and it fell and he hit his head and-_

_and there he is sound asleep, breathing. Round cheeks flushed, and eyelids twitching. The relief hits so strongly he forgets to be angry for a second._

_He throws his arms over his head when he sees her, in the same spot drying her tears. “What the fuck happened?”_

_She shakes her head and works on slowing her breathing. Gasp, whistle. Gasp, whistle. Marvin realizes maybe he isn’t being the most understanding._

_He compensates by sitting next to her, brushing her hair with his fingers and tucking a strand behind her ear in the way she often does to his and asks the same question. Softer this time. She whispers when she answers; like she’s telling him something she doesn’t think she’s allowed to say out loud._

_“It just kinda hit me…. How much he’s_ ruined _me.”_

_He replays the last few minutes in his head and thinks he understands what she means._

The worst part of parenthood is that at its crux, it is a constant, gut-wrenching concern that exists to be rebuffed and rejected as a sign of _growth_ and _independence._

The _best_ part of parenthood is that at its crux, it is a constant, gut-wrenching concern that exists to be rebuffed and rejected as a sign of growth and independence- but even with the natural biological drive to separate, if someone hurts, they want their mommy or daddy to hold them. No matter their pride, no matter the past parental shortcomings.

Marvin can do that.

* * *

They sit at the table. Marvin at the head, his wife across from him, and child in between. Some kind of salmon thing in front of them, healthy but tasty, It follows as all the dinners lately have since the school year started.

“How was school today?”

_“Fine.”_

“Learn anything new?”

_“Not really.”_

“Did you talk to any of your classmates?”

_“No.”_ He says, fully aware this was the reason behind their impromptu parent-teacher conference a couple of weeks ago.

Trina sighs and goes to the kitchen to fill her wine glass for the third time that night as Jason pushes perfectly cooked, _expensive_ salmon around on his plate.

“Are you not hungry?” he asks.

Jason shrugs, as his mother reclaims her seat beside him.

_“I don’t really like fish.”_

“It’s good for you. And your mother worked all day on it.” She opens her mouth as if to protest, but bites her tongue and simply takes a sip from her glass instead. He looks at him and makes sure he looks back. He continues tersely, “There are little boys right now that would give anything to have this meal. Eat it. You’re not leaving this table until the plate is clean”

The fork is clenched tightly in his grip. He makes a point of plugging his nose as he chews, jaw tight.

She empties her glass and moves to refill it. He reaches over and puts his hand around her wrist as her grip tightens on the stem. With a minute shake of his head, she sits back down. Jason pointedly does not look at them as he takes small, but frequent bites of his dinner, wincing after each swallow. Marvin rolls his eyes at the dramatics.

Here they are. Head of the table, breadwinner- comes home after dealing with twerp interns all day to a half-drunk matriarch, late with dinner, and a little boy- not quite eight years old- looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Despite having everything Marvin wanted at his age. Except for friends which he seems to purposefully avoid making.

_(They’re all imbeciles,_ he says when he defends his actions. _They still watch the stupid cartoons I stopped watching ages ago. I was talking to Michael Hirsch yesterday, and he doesn’t even know what the word gratuitous means!_

Trina tells him that _not everyone can be as advanced as you are, sweetheart._ The pride in her voice almost manages to hide the worry.)

Every evening. This was the plan. This is what he’s been _yearning_ for his whole life. A family where everyone loves and supports each other. He looks down and sees his plate is almost empty.

So why is Marvin so desperately _hungry?_

Into his brain pops the image of _her_ pushing her glasses up with a snort, giving him a look he can’t see but he knows what it means. He does what fucking _Mendel_ told him to do when he thinks things he doesn’t want to. He puts it away because _that’s all it is Marvin, a picture, a sound. Focus on what you have in front of you, focus on what you love._ He loves the little boy by his side with a face not exactly like- but _so similar-_ to his at that age. A face that’s currently looking at him in indignation. His lovely wife, so compassionate and gentle, who he wishes would just fucking _snap_ at him the way he wants her to so their arguments don’t always end with her crying and trying to deescalate while he feels like the biggest sack of shit in the world, which is apparently still not big enough sack of shit for him to stop or apologize. She looks at him with- what? Concern? Fear? It’s too fucking familiar. He excuses himself, tells her he’s just stressed with work, he’s got a lot on his plate and has been working all those late nights. It’s not a lie. He just excludes the fact that its work he volunteered for.

It keeps him occupied, and away from the apartment for a while. Away from the judgmental stares of possibly the world’s snottiest seven-year-old, away from broken plates and arms around his waist in bed, because he didn’t put his around her first.

If he sometimes stays after he’s finished to stand on the roof and watch the city and wonder what he would look like if he fell from this high, _(would there be a bone that wasn’t shattered to dust? Or an organ that hadn’t burst like a water balloon? If he flushed his wallet down the toilet, how long would it take for them to know it was him? Could they ever know for sure? Or would he just be an indiscriminate piece of carrion, a splatter on the sidewalk for businesswomen to step over, to avoid getting their heels dirty?)_ that’s no one’s business but his own.

(And if he takes a long way home that is less of a long way and more of a detour, swinging through a borough he has no business being in afterward, just to catch a glimpse of swirling lights and moving bodies through dirty windows- no one needs to know that either)

A week later, after he again gets himself out of another family dinner that he himself demanded; has yet _another_ talk with Trina where he can’t tell if she’s relieved or bereaved when he tells her he won’t be home in time- he’s having one of those nights, which are becoming just _nights_ like any other with their growing frequency. It’s late February and he’s long past the point of freezing to where he’s just numb and flushed. Standing on the roof for god knows how long now, listening to the city and reminded of his childhood home. The large houses on either side, the iron fencing of the waterfront and the perfect view of the skyline. Completely quiet sans the pigeons and the ferry (workers having not arrived yet, and his parents in their _work apartment_ in the city). He has the view, but not the peace _She_ is in his head again _tsks-ing_ and wagging her finger, teasing _you’re slipping, Marvin. Slipping slipping slipping slippi-_ and Sheryl joins in with an ugly snort of laughter _(Sheryl. God, that’s her name.)_ and then _oh_ he didn’t realize how close he was standing to the ledge he’s never stood over the railing like this before he doesn’t remember how he got here and-

his right shoe catches on some ice and his vision is fogged up by the condensation of his own breath and he’s going to die Marvin is going to die and if they’re even able to identify the frozen puddle of viscera he’ll become he won’t even be allowed to be buried in a Jewish cemetery and _oh god what will his mother think_ and then-

his left foot finds purchase on the concrete of the ledge, and he uses the friction to throw himself back, gasping and scrambling as he feels the cold rock under his surely-scraped palms.

He only hears the distant sound of his own lungs trying to fight his rapid heartbeat and a car alarm around the corner.

He’s passed slipping. Marvin has officially slipped. Marvin needs to be a better husband and father. He needs to stop being an idiot and make sure he lives to see his son make it to middle school. He’s going to do whatever he needs to do to make that happen.

(If Marvin starts this resolution by going to borough he has no business being in, especially this late at night, that’s no one’s business but his own. If he parks his car and steps inside a small brick building he’s often watched but never entered-

no one needs to know.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alright so this ended up being quite a bit darker than i anticipated tbh- i wanted to keep “the girls from high school” around because while the nature of their presence is up for interpretation, they were definitely a big part of marvin at this point in time. I was going for them being more of intrusive thoughts as opposed to hallucinations, but like in trousers, it’s up to interpretation
> 
> i hope adding to it yknow. actually adds to it as opposed to distracting from part I. other parts are in progress! again, i hope the grammatical errors are at a minimum (i am exhausted, i took a very long hike for my birthday today but i still wanted to get it posted)
> 
> on marvins childhood home: ive decided he grew up in that part of NJ right over the bridge (weehawken area) which is for rich people who work in the city but still want to live in a mansion (with an amazing view of the city)
> 
> on an unrelated note, rest in peace to the incredible nick cordero. i had of honor of watching him perform in little shop in DC in 10/2018 and met him after the show. he was the most charismatic and talented guy. please send some good vibes towards his wife amanda and baby elvis.
> 
> as always, feedback is always appreciated and acknowledged, and black lives matter


	3. III - and i leap

He didn’t mean for it to happen again.

He never planned on staying out so late, never intended to miss so many dinners, so many bedtimes. He made so many promises to himself, as well as unspoken ones to _them._ Marvin tried to fulfill them- he did. It’s just that once you know, you can’t un-know. There’s no forgetting the feeling of excitement, anxiety, and lust; entirely indistinguishable from one another swirling low in his gut. The foreign sensation of stubble scraping his neck, the _relief_ of a flat chest pressed against his own. No matter how hard he tries, the smoke of the cloudy bars fogs up his vision for days until he goes back for more, and- for a little while, he can see again. The unfortunate side-effect is that it leaves his head painfully clear to dwell. When he finally arrives home, the sweat is cold and his shirt sticks to his skin and the fruity drink he bought for the tall slim man at the other end of the bar lingers on his tongue and lips turns sour as he passes the threshold and the pictures in the foyer. Soon, the only thing sour on his tongue will be the taste of his own vomit, if the rest of his night follows as precedent. He quickly scrubs away the stickiness and the cologne and the _shame._ For a brief moment, he allows himself to savor the phantom sensation of _hands_. He closes his eyes as he runs his hands over where slightly smaller, but more calloused ones did the same motion just an hour ago- despite the disgust he feels for all the wrong reasons. Until he’s dead on his feet and has no choice but to rinse him away, too.

Afterward, he crawls into bed beside her, careful not to jostle the mattress. She’s not as good at feigning rest as she thinks she is. He sees the blessing of her not wanting a fight as it is, and lets her have the night. He runs through his routine post-game promises and rationalizations as he tries to fall asleep, and she does the same. Thankfully, he’s much better at faking it than she is.

When morning comes they’ll drink their tea, and then, he and Jason will play a game of their own. Rummy, chess, checkers. She won’t mention the night prior and neither will he. There’s nothing to be said.

And if her hands wander at bedtime, conveniently, he’ll be tired- for once.

He’ll come home early every night for a month straight, an almost-apology for the one late night. Not that it’s noticed or welcomed. She doesn’t greet him with a kiss on the cheek anymore. She doesn’t ask when he leaves the house. Or ask when he comes home. He brings home flowers when he can tell she’s in a down mood; more lavish gifts when it seems appropriate. She holds these items in her hands while she politely thanks and kisses him, smile restrained. He falters- but keeps trying.

She reads her novels, does the laundry, makes dinner, and works. He plays his role of Husband and Father as reliably as he can. As patiently as he can.

Until the fog creeps in. Until he begins to snap.

Until he’s choking on it and the only way he can breathe again is to duck out of work early and say he’ll be home late. Go back to a place he feels so out of place in because he’d rather stick out like a sore thumb than feel like he belongs. Find someone there. He doesn’t always, but it certainly helps if he does.

Someone available, not too bad looking, someone that won’t ask for too much, help him get what he needs and get home before 12:30, someone-

who makes his breath catch in his throat and his stomach leap when he, minutes later looks back at Marvin, appraisingly.

An hour or so later the guy is tucking himself back into his pants, zipping as he turns to Marvin, eyes sparkling with curiosity as he notices him leaning against the wall dazedly, seemingly in no hurry to make himself presentable.

“Well, this was fun,” he says casually, a grin spreading across his face. He only dumbly nods in reply. The man snorts as he puts on his jacket. He leans in closely and Marvin thinks he might pass out when the guy simply murmurs in his ear “See you around, Marvin.”, sentence punctuated by a couple of pats to his cheek as he pulls away. Marvin's limbs are jelly and his brain is mush. He’s helpless to do anything but watch as the man lights a smoke and ducks out, disappearing into the ether that is the village on a Thursday night.

He doesn’t mean for it to happen again, but _God_ does he want it to.

* * *

“Would you like to meet my wife?”

A head slowly turns to look at Marvin, where he lies half-covered with a sheet on a bed far more brittle than his own with something akin to _distress._ Still, he chuckles lowly as he replies

“I’m _sorry?”_

He shuffles to sit up against the flimsy headboard with a sigh, “She doesn’t think you’re real. I’m pretty sure she thinks I made you up so I had an excuse to be out with a mistress.”

Whizzer snorts and breathes out a thin cloud of smoke out the fire escape. “You haven’t exactly been _subtle,_ Marvin. You’ve stayed overnight twice these past two weeks. Of course she thinks you’re fucking someone else. She just wouldn’t dare to think it’s me.” He flicks the cigarette out to the concrete and hops down from the sill to stretch in the sun out on the floor in front of it. The light makes his hair look golden and his eyes basically glow with warmth. Marvin admires the stretch of his bare abdomen as his back arches against the scuffed hardwood, toes curling as he stretches his arms out over his head. Languishing, he runs a hand through his hair and shoots an amused, knowing look at Marvin where he’s been gazing.

Marvin takes the invitation for what it is and climbs out of the bed, stretching out on top of Whizzer, both hands on either side of his head, running his hands through his soft hair. Still drunk off the thrill or having three full uninterrupted hours together in broad daylight, all because Marvin told his coworkers the food he got on his lunch break wasn’t sitting well all because he knew Whizzer didn’t have any clients today. The sun is warm against his bare back, as is the rest of him from the skin against his, redressed only to boxers. Breath drenched in the smell of smoke which Marvin pretends to hate ghosts his lips as their noses press together. As Marvin leans down even closer to kiss him, he feels more than he hears the murmur against his lips.

“Okay.”

“Hmm?” He replies through the haze, kissing him again, tongue barely breaching before Whizzer breaks away and Marvin ducks his head down to kiss his jaw.

“Okay, I’ll go.”

Marvin's teeth are against the spot right beneath Whizzer’s ear when it clicks, and he freezes.

“Wait. Really?”

He slaps Marvin’s arm to get him to sit up and groans. “I don’t know, okay? Let’s call it morbid curiosity. Don’t make me regret this more than I already do.”

So Marvin shuts his mouth and continues on.

It’s rather dull when it happens. The world doesn’t end. The floor doesn’t open up to swallow Marvin whole as his worlds collide. They spend their night as they do any of the others they’ve had together. Only it begins with Whizzer at _his_ door for once, dressed gorgeously in something he likely purposefully chose to annoy Marvin with. Something classy that suits him, but still makes Marvin’s gut clench when he sees it, knowing what other men think of men that dress like that and what if one of his coworkers saw them walking together or what if _Jason_ with his all-knowing gaze will see and make assumptions.

_(Trina he doesn’t worry about. Trina will see what she wants to see.)_

He shakes her hand with both of his wide palms enveloping hers, and Marvin watches her be hesitantly charmed by his compliments of her home and appearance. The sound of the TV and clicks of pieces against a board are muffled through the walls as she invites him over for dinner Tuesday night, and he- for some reason- accepts.

Marvin manages to hold off his incredulity until they’re away from the view of the windows and on the way to his car. Whizzer raises his hands in surrender at his accusing stare “She’s nice, okay? You’re the one who wanted me to meet her in the first place! What, was I supposed to say _no?”_ He shakes his head. He doesn’t know what he wanted.

So less than a week later; there he is on Marvin’s stoop again. Only this time he holds a bouquet of bodega flowers in one hand, and a cheap plastic cab in the other. Trina swoops in behind him in her apron before he can say anything to marvel at the cheap flowers and say they’re just _lovely._ The look Whizzer gives her is apologetic as he replies “Oh, I’m sorry Trina I should have thought to grab something for you- these are for Marv.” He twiddles with the rubber band cinching the stems as he gets two blank stares and Marvin’s fist clenches until Whizzer’s poker face breaks and Trina laughs in a way he hasn’t heard her do in a long time and Marvin has no choice but to follow suit or look like an asshole. Whizzer hands her the bouquet with a grin and tells her she looks great, and she shoots off to the cabinets, fussing over finding a proper vase. The look he sends Marvin is all faux innocence and smug satisfaction, and Marvin has no choice but to put his annoyance and relief away for later, and goes to take Whizzer’s jacket from his shoulders. His hands freeze when he hears

“Is that for me?”

Whizzer falters when he sees him standing there, in all his four-and-a-half foot glory sheathed in an oversized space camp t-shirt. His magnified eyes assess the little taxi held by a stranger.

“I guess so.”

“I’m nine. I’m too old to play with that stuff.” His heart clenches in his chest. If Marvin were functioning properly right now, he would tell him to watch his tone.

For some reason this makes Whizzer’s shoulders relax under Marvin’s hands where they’ve stalled. “Sorry, I got it for fifty cents on a whim. I don’t really know any kids except for my sister’s and they kind of suck.”

Marvin didn’t know he had a sister. Whenever he’s asked him about his family, he’s received the same response he usually got when he asked Whizzer personal questions. A scoff, followed by _wouldn’t you like to know._

“Most kids do.”

Whizzer barks out a laugh and finishes shrugging his coat off of his shoulders and shoves it onto Marvin, standing there stunned and unnoticed. He hangs it without comment. “It would probably still be pretty fun to smash up.” he offers. Jason considers it for a moment, before conceding with a nod. Whizzer smiles- his real one that is seen often and tosses him the cheap toy, which is miraculously caught on his first try. Marvin feels like he’s in a dream.

“Good catch! You an athlete?”

The question excites him enough to snap him out of it. “If you smash it up, you have to sweep it up, okay? And _yes,_ he is.” Marvin can’t help but reply on his behalf. His grin betraying his pride.

Jason tenses in embarrassment, as he puts the toy in his pocket. “That’s not what he meant, dad.”

“Doesn’t matter, he asked if you were an athlete and you _are._ Chess is a sport!” He can’t decipher the look Whizzer gives him, and he doesn’t care to try. “He won a championship match against a seventeen-year-old just a few months ago.”

After a careful pause, he replies. “Very impressive.” He looks at Jason approvingly, who _-_ to Marvin’s surprise, is _preening,_ and starts to wander the entryway and scans over the photos. “But- you were right. I was more wondering if you played something that involved- you know. Catching things.”

“No. Never outside of P.E.."

Whizzer snorts, “What; has Marvin never taken you to the park to play catch?

_“Please,_ he’s worse than I am. At least I like _watching_ sports.” Marvin rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother to object to the dig. It leads nowhere good. Especially when he can’t think of a good comeback.

“Like what?” Whizzer asks distantly, inspecting the sole wedding picture mounted on the wall with something akin to reverence. Beautiful setting; Painfully posed. His cheeks flushed and eyes glazed over. Her, almost green with nausea. Eyes not glazed, but glassy.

It’s the best one they have from the day.

_“Baseball.”,_ they reply in unison with stark differences in delivery.

That gets his attention back. “Oh, nice. I was uh, star pitcher in high school. Even got a few scholarships out of it.”

Marvin didn’t know he went to college, either.

“That is _so_ cool.” is a sentence he doesn’t think he’s heard exit his son’s mouth in years. “I suck.”

“I could give you some pointers- if you want.”

A delighted gasp, “Really?”

Followed by Marvin’s own, not so delighted _“Really.”_

Whizzer shrugs; all fake nonchalance. His “Sure.”, is directed more at Marvin than it is his son.

“Everything’s just about done!” Trina chirps as she exits the kitchen, untying her apron as she does so. “Jason, go wash your hands.”

“Aren’t you supposed to say please?”

She uses the tight, exhausted smile that’s reserved for Jason and replies “I don’t have to, I’m your mother. Wash your hands.”

He trudges off with a roll of his eyes, leaving the three of them alone. She awkwardly asks her guest what he’d like to drink, and tells them to sit. Whizzer asks her if she’d like his help setting the table and she looks positively gobsmacked by the offer. Her _oh, no thank you,_ is stuttered as she runs back to the kitchen.

Marvin takes the brief moment alone to take his hand and squeeze, pulling away when he hears light steps coming from the bathroom.

They take their regular seats, with Whizzer filling the perpetually empty one next to him and across from Jason. The strained and polite questions typically focused on school are replaced by genuine curiosity directed at Whizzer, about baseball (Jason), and his life in general (Trina). God knows she’s wondering who exactly he is, her husband's First-Ever Adult Friend. It is taken in stride. For some reason, Whizzer seems far more willing to share information about himself _here,_ than he is when one on one with his friend and whatever-else-they-are-to-each-other. The dinner conversation continues as follows:

“Are you from the city?”

“Born and raised!”

“What do you do for work?”

“Very little these days, unfortunately.”

“You said you had a sister?”

“Yes. We uh, aren’t very close. But I get along with her better than most of my family. We have some… differences in opinion. Irreconcilable. Not quite the beautiful family you have here!”

“I’m sure you’ll be making one of your own, very soon.”

A bark of laughter as a foot snakes its way seeping Marvin’s ankle. “We’ll see about that.”

“I know plenty of desperate, single girls from temple- I could sniff around and see if any would be comfortable going on a date with a goy.”

“I’ll let you know if I get to that point. Not quite a goy, by the way.”

Her back straightens. “You’re Jewish?!”

“Half.”

She deflates- until, “Mother’s side?”

A shake of the head. “Dad’s.”

This is somehow worse to her than him not being Jewish at all. “Did she convert?”

“Hell no, she’s a hardcore Puerto Rican catholic.”

She looks mildly scandalized. Jason meanwhile, looks thrilled by the use of profanity at the dinner table. It’s actually the happiest he’s looked sitting in that seat in a long time.

Marvin has his lover on his left, his son to his right, and his wonderful wife in front of him. All of whom are happy to be here, with one another.

Marvin thinks he could get used to this.

* * *

It’s only a few months later when the paperwork is filed. She looks drained and exhausted as she signs the dotted line beneath her name. Meanwhile, Marvin feels like he can finally sleep.

There’s little fight left in either of them, so the proceedings don’t take long at all. They agree on all the important things. Jason needs two parents, he stays at home with Trina for now, and Marvin pays for whatever they need.

Jason is angry, and he understands why. It’s scary and confusing. He’s never handled change well and Marvin knows all too well where he gets it from.

Because tonight he’s alone in Whizzer’s shitty apartment and it feels a lot different than it did before it was so… permanent. Before he came with the intent to stay, bag in hand and heart on his sleeve. Before he had been in the place alone, on one of the nights Marvin would typically sneak away from home to be with him. Before he was drinking alone on the old couch with tears in the upholstery, all while Whizzer was probably out letting someone else buy his drinks when Marvin would buy him the most expensive whiskey he could ask for if that was what he wanted. He would just… complain about it endlessly while he did it. He needs to retain his pride _somehow._ Now he’s the one sitting and waiting. He knew what he was getting himself into when he told her _it’s for the best._ He knew things wouldn’t drastically change between them, not right away. It’s different from feeling it for himself. Waiting for him to come home like a sad puppy, licking his wounds to kill the time only to find more and more gashes are springing up. Panic hits him when the phone rings and he realizes he hasn’t begun to consider the etiquette of the situation. Is he supposed to answer? What if a neighbor comes by? What does he tell them? What are they? When he answers, is it Whizzer’s phone? _Brown residence? Marvin-and-Whizzer’s apartment?_

The simpler the better, he decides.

“Hello?”

“Marvin?” and- that’s unexpected. It’s barely been a week since he’s seen Trina because she understandably kind of hates him right now and _needed some time alone._ They’ve communicated pretty much exclusively through Jason; whom he sees nearly every day, fruitlessly trying to break the ice that’s directed towards him.

“Trina? Everything okay?”

“I-“ the line crackles over her shuddering breath “she called me and asked for you and I-I didn’t know what to say, I didn’t tell her anything, I promise. I just told her you weren’t home and she could get in touch with you at this number-“ the pit of his stomach drops at the frantic tone of her voice. “Marv, I didn’t say anything. I wouldn’t.”

“To who?”, he asks, but it sounds hollow. The familiar way in which the hairs in the back of his neck stand up tell him that he already knows the answer.

“Yiskah.”

There’s another call coming in.

“Trina, I’m gonna have to call you back okay?”

He barely hears her whispered response as he moves the phone from his ear. “I’m sorry, Marvin I didn’t-“

He puts it down and takes a deep breath. With a deceivingly steady hand, he picks it back up.

“Marvin.” a familiar voice on the other line demands.

“Hi, mom.”

“I got a call from Edith Feldshuh today. She said she heard some rumors about you at temple. Are they true?”

He keeps his voice as collected as he can as he replies “I don’t know mom, what did Edith say?”

“Don’t make me say it. Trina’s obnoxious little whimpers caused my acid reflux to act up enough today.”

He wraps the cord around his index finger one, two, three, four times, unwraps, wraps again, _one, two, three, four,_ breathing deeply through his nose.

His silence is enough of an answer for her.

“Jason is my grandson. He will continue to receive his allowance from us, but that is all.

I will not be showing my face in New York for quite some time.”

“Okay.”, he answers, sounding hollow to his own ears.

“- And I won’t tell your father. God knows he’d just forget the moment I told him. It’s not worth it having to go over it again and again. Not to mention how bad it would be for his heart if it somehow _stuck.”_

“Okay, mom.”

Her sharp exhale hits the receiver in what feels like a scream. “You don’t get to call me that anymore. Not after what you’ve done to our name.”

He carefully swallows the lump in his throat. He feels like he’s having one of those nightmares where he’s trying to scream but physically can’t because his tongue is useless, heavy, and foreign in his palate. He thinks he might choke on it. He also feels utterly numb. “Okay.”

“Goodnight, Marvin.”

“Goodnight.” he parrots back, dead line ringing in his ears.

She doesn't need to say it outright for him to know that's the last time he'll ever hear from her.

But it's okay, he decides. It’s okay. Because Marvin doesn’t need her. He has a family of his own now. And sure, they’re in a bit of a rough patch right now, but it’ll all work out. Because it has to.

Because Marvin is going to make it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [oh, marvin](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MJA9O16m1Co)  
> so this one was a little bit different, a little bit more outside of marvin’s head because i think marvin is a little less inside marvins head at this point, to preserve his own tentative sanity. we are just starting to encroach on canon territory!! the plot will follow canon, but not include exact canon scenes (and if they do, they will be followed loosely. i mean y’all know what happens and i don’t see the point in me rewriting bill finn’s masterpiece just worse). itll just continue to read between the lines  
> also in trousers whizzer smokes after orgasms and that‘s just a fact. he quit sometime before act 2.
> 
> again, no timeframe for the next update, but this one took less time than i though it would, considering it ended up being longer than the others. i had a lot of fun with the dialogue!!
> 
> thanks as always for reading. all feedback is immensely encouraging, so if this made you feel any type of way, please let me know!  
> black lives matter


	4. IV - the understudy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: chapter contains some references to violence and self-harm

Dinner with just Whizzer is different.

When it happens, sometimes he feels like everything is falling into place, and all he needs are the two remaining pieces of a one-thousand piece puzzle, the ones to fit snugly at the corners to make everything square and complete. Only the two final pieces have been lost somewhere along the way, crushed under a chair leg or fallen through the vents in the floor. As much as he wants them there, their presence inevitably leads to unpleasantness. Someone storming off and someone else eventually sneaking off to cry (he’s not saying who, but god, has she been killing him lately.)

Here, with just the two of them; sometimes Marvin can forget. He can forget the things they say to each other when things get too heated, he can forget where they started. He can forget when Whizzer got home last night. On nights like this, Whizzer is _kind._ He indulges him, listens, laughs when appropriate, and makes him feel like his day mattered. Like what he does matters. Like Marvin is _important._ It reminds him of the first time their eyes met and his knees almost buckled in wonder at the fact that he would even be _considered_ by him _._ Marvin eats pasta that’s crunchy in patches with a smile on his face; because tonight is a good night. If Whizzer is going to play his part; Marvin is going to play his. He’ll revel in it until one of them says something that doesn’t sit right with the other. Until jabs are traded. Until Marvin is alone and Whizzer is God knows where.

He pointedly doesn’t wash the dishes, leaves the red sauce, all that’s been left behind of their rendezvous to stick to the plate and congeal like blood, until the one of them who can’t tolerate mess has no choice but to take care of it himself.

_(Marvin is sixteen and found out he got on the honor roll two days ago. He numbly stands in the kitchen and smashes fine china, rubbing the shards of fine porcelain between his palms because if no one will see him, really see him- at least someone will be forced to see and scrub his blood off the marble with bleach.)_

He drinks and he showers. Reads a book from a coworker that is about as obnoxious as the man who recommended it, until he gives up and lays in bed. A bed he sleeps well in most nights.

Most.

Someone crawls into bed beside him sometime around one in the morning. Marvin is utterly still and uncaring. Marvin is cool. Then a hand will brush his wrist, or a toe pokes his calf and he can _hear_ the self-satisfied smirk on Whizzer’s face as he feels Marvin tense up the way he does before he completes the cycle and _snaps._ He rolls over on top of him and kisses him until he’s bruised and they barely sleep before Marvin has to go work. He regrettably won’t be home

in time for dinner that evening because his five o’clock appointments with Mendel have been upped to twice a week, since he moved out. He’ll cut back again soon. He’s felt a little less unsteady lately, plus he’s noticed he doesn’t leave his office feeling better, or worse- but he’ll keep going. When he’s there, he at least knows he can say anything, and be safe. It’s the first place he’s ever been in his life where he doesn’t worry what’s thought of him. Marvin has been in therapy since he was a child, stuck with one for a few years here and there. Apathetic, scientific, analytical old men with round glasses who asked about his dreams and earliest memories and _what were you feeling when you did that?_ with cold, prying fingers cloaked in paper-thin skin. Eventually, he’d give them _something_ and their childish delight and curiosity would peek through the furious writing in their notebooks, documenting his mistakes for posterity.

Mendel was different.

Closer to his age, colorful. Fresh out of school, when they met. He greeted Marvin with a warm smile and warmer hands. Marvin would talk and Mendel would reliably smile and shrug, no matter how important, no matter how heinous. So he’d keep talking, interrupted rarely with some personal anecdote or poetic turn of phrase. Marvin would take the scraps of personal information he’d unconsciously share and put them in an album, putting together a picture of a man he liked to think he knew. When things got too off-course, he would dig them out of the plastic sleeve and watch the doctor get antsy. Make a self-deprecating joke with a wave of his hand and move on, still seemingly unfazed for the most part. Discomfort showing only in his nervous laughs, jiggles of his leg, fiddling with his woven bracelets. So Marvin would be a little more daring each session. Dig a little deeper, into Mendel, yes- but more so himself. Testing the boundaries, seeing how far he could go into recesses of his brain before he was greeted with shock, or horror, or intellectual _glee._ An experiment. Only it didn’t happen. He simply nodded and watched on as Marvin talked himself into circles.

After what felt like a particularly long session he seemed _bored._ Like he was filling time, counting the minutes until he got home to do whatever the hell it is he does in his free time. And then out came the words Marvin didn’t think his vocal cords were capable of producing. Only- to his surprise, Mendel only pondered it for a minute, cocked his head and hummed, followed shortly by a quiet laugh. _Well, that would explain a lot, wouldn’t it?_ The flippancy of it made Marvin feel almost as relieved as he did sick.

By the time Marvin finally gets home from his sessions, Whizzer will either be there, or he won’t. And it’s fine. It’s working.

Really.

_(If it’s not, he’ll make sure it won’t happen again. Make sure he doesn’t take away the one good fucking thing he has left-)_

It’s all good. Even if he barely sees his son anymore because he’s decided he’s above his own father because no one seems to understand that everything Marvin’s done has been for _them._ Even if Trina can’t stand to see his face but still calls him every week to talk at him because _who else is she going to talk to?_ He listens because even if he’s not her husband anymore, she’ll always be his wife. He’s never been the best listener, but if letting her talk is all he can do for her, something to keep them coming back to him other than his name on the checks- he’ll put in his time. So he hums and hums and annoyance prickles in his chest when her voice gets rough because if it isn’t annoyance he feels, it’s something else. Something that he doesn’t have the chutzpah to bear, yet.

She needs a friend. A _real_ friend. Not another mom from Jason’s school who only interacts with her to see what gossip she knows, not Claudia from down the block who occasionally brings over food for them, but Marvin’s _pretty sure_ killed her last husband. Someone she can talk to that will let her talk, and let her be upset until she realizes her life is not over, that not all that much has changed.

Someone to smile and shrug and make her feel safe.

* * *

The more he sees of Mendel now, the less safe he feels.

Spending more time in the apartment Marvin paid for than Marvin was welcome to. He eats dinner with his wife and his child and they mention him with fondness- like he was an old friend, a fun neighbor, _family._ Not the goddamn family shrink. And the more time he spends with them- no, the more time he spends with _her,_ something changes. The tone of Marvin’s own sessions has undergone a subtle, but palpable shift.

The nods and anecdotes and vague words of encouragement are out of sync. He is no longer _unfazed_. Marvin keeps going as he would. Brutally honest and bare of soul, repeating the things he’s said and the things he hears and thinks that he just wishes would just _stop._ Mendel doesn’t respond with curiosity, like feared and expected. He’s disdainful. Disappointed, almost. Anytime her name comes up his face goes red and his lips thin into nothing.

She says he and Jason are making good progress, that Mendel’s been coming over even more often and has been a big help. She invites him to come over and see how _they get along so well, don’t they? I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him click with someone like this._

She has. She just doesn’t like the other person he clicked with.

He gets there early in an attempt to help with homework, which is quickly brushed off. So he resorts to reading over his shoulder and watching as Jason puts in all the correct answers on his own. Trina- doesn’t quite avoid him, but she isn’t the most comfortable in his presence either. Not that his presence ever truly left the house. The pictures of him are still on the walls, his mother’s piano still sits in the living room. The gifts he gave and the furniture he barely managed to put together is still everywhere. The bird chirps at him with what he interprets as fondness.

So then why does this own home fit him as his off-the-rack bar mitzvah suit did?

She runs upstairs while the meat is in the oven and trots downstairs in freshly curled hair that he thinks might sizzle if splashed with water, short heels that he doesn’t remember her owning, and lipstick darker than she would normally wear.

For dinner with him, Mendel, and Jason.

That’s the first red flag.

The second is that he doesn’t even bother ringing the doorbell. He simply lets himself in, and calls out a greeting, and- everyone comes to attention. For _Mendel._

Mendel whose mother calls him twice a week to pester him about grandkids. Mendel whose eyes are perpetually bruised with exhaustion. Mendel who goes to annual _summer camp reunions_ and worships Bob Dylan.

Mendel who knows every bad thing Marvin has ever done. Mendel, who immediately answered the phone at two-thirty in the morning, when Marvin called from a dirty payphone the first night he got on his knees, and the guy was so nice and patient and _gentle_ with him but he still threw up in the street when the panic began post-mortem and he couldn’t breathe because he still felt the weight of a cock in his mouth, and wanted it to choke him to death so he could just fucking _die;_ subservient and humiliated as he deserved. Mendel, who told him to go home, and get some rest. Knows that he had panic attacks almost every day when Jason was a toddler. The only person who knows about the last time he spoke to his mother. The first person to know what he was. Mendel, who knows how much he feels, all the time.

Mendel, who knows about Miss Goldberg

Mendel, who is greeted warmly by his son, makes his wife blush, and sits in Marvin’s seat at the dinner table he paid for.

On paper, it's a pleasant enough evening. Trina’s cooking is a breath of fresh air compared to what he’s been dealing with lately. He and Trina are ousted to the living room after dinner. They drink and turn the TV on to fill the room with anything other than their silence while they sit next to each other on the floor by the door in an attempt to eavesdrop.

Once they’ve mostly given up on hearing anything but a word here and there, he conducts an experiment.

“You look nice tonight.”

She stiffens. Her right hand reached out nervously to fiddle with a phantom ring. She takes a deep shuddering breath before finally replying “Thank you.”

When Mendel leaves, she reaches out to him before her movements stutter as Marvin catches him in her peripheral vision. She retracts one limb and shakes his hand. Tells him she’ll make his favorite next week.

When it comes time for the next session, he doesn’t tell them they're coming over.

It’s all because he was ranting about it to Whizzer, who made some stupid joke about what Mendel and Trina do during their private sessions. His stupid, sharp, charming laugh and _That sounds like some, uh. Pretty rigorous therapy_. It throws off every rationalizing mantra he’s been circling through to push the thoughts away, the same routine Mendel taught him to stop the _cascading thoughts._ Mendel could lose his license. Trina is still sad about the divorce, she isn’t ready to move on. Mendel might as well sleep in his office, he doesn't have time to date. There’s nothing remotely desirable about Mendel. He’s small and weak. Marvin has never seen him in an outfit that doesn’t have holes, even though he knows the bastard can afford new clothes. Trina is great, but far from special enough to risk his career over. They both have _some semblance of morality._

So, he’s going back. Goes to get more evidence to prove the nagging, persistent voice saying _they’re talking about you they hate you they’re leaving you-_ wrong. He drags Whizzer along to back him up, to tell him _yes,_ he’s paranoid. _Yes,_ he’s going crazy. God knows why he expected him to be supportive and helpful for once.

He can tell it’s going to be a rough night when it’s _Mendel_ who answers the door. He greets them with a short-lived fumble, followed by a smile. Confused, but not entirely displeased. “Oh, I didn’t know we were doing a family session tonight. Come in!”, he says, as if it’s his place to welcome them into a home with Marvin’s name on the lease. He doesn’t seem to know what to make of Whizzer but catches on to who he must be quick. He doesn’t stick around to watch them exchange pleasantries but leaves the foyer just in time to see Mendel awkwardly _(grudgingly)_ extend his hand and Whizzer look (way) down at him in amusement.

She doesn’t look thrilled to see him.

“Why are you here?” _Why is she already being so defensive?_

“I thought last week’s session was very productive. _Enlightening.”,_ he says casually. “You said yourself, we _both_ need to be here for Jason as much as we can right now, to help with the transition.”

She huffs out a breath and fiddles with her blouse. “What is _he_ doing here then?”

Now he’s the one getting defensive. “Like it or not, he’s Jason’s favorite person next to Bobby Fischer and Lee Mazzilli. I figured him being here would soften the blow of having to see me.”

She deflates, wrapping her arms around herself. “You could have at least called.”

He lived here longer than he has any other home _._ “I will next time.”

Hesitantly, she nods. “There should be enough, come on.”

He lets Mendel take his chair, as to not fiddle with the experiment. To his surprise, Trina takes the seat next to him and across from Jason. The one usually left empty. He frantically elbows Whizzer to point it out to him. He responds by roughly shoving the limb away from him and configuring his face into a condescending display of shock. “How scandalous.” he murmurs into Marvin’s ear.

He and Whizzer end up squeezing themselves into the one remaining edge of the table, with Whizzer forced to loot a chair for himself. They eat quietly, with Mendel occasionally attempting polite conversation. But what can you talk about in a room with three patients of yours and a stranger you know far too much about?

The answer: mostly nothing. News stories that aren’t too gruesome and occasionally sports. The only person to indulge him is Whizzer, who’s participation seems to just make Mendel uncomfortable. Aside from that, the conversation consists of hums and the sound of silver scraping glaze, diminishing as forks are set aside and the sound of the city sings through the open window. Until-

They flinch at the sound of palms hitting the table and silverware clattering. Mendel loudly announces “Y’know what? How about we do something a little different tonight?” He doesn’t wait for a reply before scraping his chair away and standing “Jason, are you all done?”

His eyes dart back and forth between his mother and Mendel. “I- I guess?”

The plates clatter as he begins to collect. “Good! How about you get back to your game; let the grown-ups talk for a little bit?” Jason looks offended at the exclusion, but takes the blessing for what it is and runs off, grabbing another piece of bread on the way.

They all stare in his direction until they hear his door slam shut. Mendel looks back at them, arms filling. “Anybody else done?” Wordlessly, they push their plates away. “Great!” he says with a tense smile. “I’ll just take these,” he mutters, reaching around each of them to grab their plates as he steps into the adjoining kitchen; dropping a few stray utensils along the way.

“What the hell is he doing?” Marvin whispers.

“I don’t know, but I have a feeling he doesn’t like me. Should I go?”

“Yes.”, Trina replies, at the same time Marvin says:

“No.”

He hopes the look he shoots her conveys his disapproval of her attitude. He can’t quite read the tense one she shoots him in reply. She never used to look at him like this. He’s not used to this kind of contempt from her. Of course, she’s hurt, with the divorce and all but- that was- _dejection._ Not whatever this is.

Hatred?

He assumed this was just part of her healing process. It occurs to him now that the more time has passed, the more disdain she shows for him. The more time passes the more time she spends with Mendel. Mendel who knows everything. Mendel who took a fucking oath.

Mendel who casually walks back into the room with water staining his patterned button-up shirt from where he began washing the dishes. Water from the bill that Marvin will pay.

“Alrighty! So, I was thinking tonight I’d try putting myself into Jason’s shoes. Take a look at how the overall family dynamic might affect him, and see what _you two_ could be doing differently to help him. Sound good?”

They both hesitate.

“Do you want me to go?” Before anyone can object, Whizzer decides himself. “Yeah, I’m gonna go.”, he says, eagerly getting up and heading to the living room. He grabs a bottle of bourbon on the way. And Marvin is left to the vultures.

“So, how has it been seeing each other lately? Has it been amicable?”

When she refuses to speak or make eye contact with either of them, he takes the reins. “It’s been fine for me.”, he replies. “I think I’ve been pretty amicable. Helpful. Trying to keep things as normal as possible for Jason. Not that that has necessarily been appreciated.”

She barks out a humorless laugh. “You- acting like nothing’s wrong, you acting like you still live here when you show up as if you’ve just been away on _business?_ I’m sorry. Maybe I’m not quite in the mood to be amicable when nothing about this is _normal.”_

“You have every right to be sad, and be upset with me but it doesn’t mean you have a right to-“

“I am not _sad,_ I’m _Grieving.”_ she chokes.

He scoffs “Grieving what? You’ll be _fine,_ you’re barely 30.”

“Yeah, and I’m already divorced and a mother of a child who’s gonna be starting middle school. _Stretched out-“_

_“Hey!”_ Mendel interjects.

“You get to be a bachelor and gallivant around the village all you want now. Me? I have to add _divorcee_ to my list of unattractive traits.”

_Jesus Christ._ “Will you stop being so dramatic? It is so hard to have an actual conversation with you when everything is the end of the world.”

_Poor Trina has to worry about finding someone to love her, a normal, pretty, smart enough woman who bends over backward to please others. He has lost everything but his job and if his bosses knew he could lose that too-_

He hears something between an incredulous guffaw and a sob. “It is the end of _our_ world. Not yours, not mine- _ours._ What we built together, what we worked for!” She picks up a stray cloth napkin left from their place settings to wipe her nose.

“What we built and worked for is _him._ And he still has us. He’ll be fine.”

“He never had you.”

“...What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Can I- interrupt for a second?”

“You already have.” Marvin barks.

“Oh… kay. Right.” Mendel grudgingly concedes. “What I’m seeing here is a lot of pride. You’re hurting each other’s pride. And you express that hurt in very different ways. Marvin, you go on the offense, and refuse to really listen because doing so is an affront to your pride.”

“I’m _listening._ ” he seethes.

“But you’re not hearing.”, Mendel says emphatically. “Trina, your pride is wounded to the point that it’s almost non-existent, and you express how you feel through physical emotion, as opposed to words- which is how Marvin operates.”

“You mean she cries a lot and I communicate.”

Mendel looks at him coldly. “Both are ways to communicate.” He looks back forth between the two of them. “What I’m seeing here is this. Marvin is a rock, and Trina is a puddle.

The way that you two communicate your feelings is so different from one another that it makes it hard for you to understand where the other is coming from.”

_Or maybe,_ he thinks, _she just cries a lot._

_(or maybe, it’s easier for you to think it’s a fault of hers rather than see it as a consequence of your actions)_

For once, Mendel looks deeply unnerved during therapy, as he watches her cry. Something that utterly stumps Marvin considering the guy gets paid to watch her cry. Then suddenly a grin breaks out across his face. 

"Hey, here's something to think about!" he says excitedly. "Picture this. Tovah wakes up on the morning of Rosh Hashanah to go wake up her son and tell him to get ready for synagogue. He bitches and moans, all-" he lowers his voice to sound monotone and dull _"'I'm not going, mom.'_ And Tovah says to her son, 'give me a good reason why you won't go.’ And he says 'oh, I'll give you two. One: they don't like me'-"

"What the fuck is this?" Marvin asks in alarm.

He puts his hand up condescendingly "Let me finish." he says, playfully defensive. "Okay so he says 'one: they don't like me and _two:_ I don't like them.’ So _Tovah_ says," he continues, literally everything about him betraying his glee and looking straight at Trina as she continues to hang her head. "'I'll give you two good reasons why you should go. One: you're 47. And two: _you're the Rabbi."' ,_ he finishes with a chuckle. She doesn't smile but does look up at him confusedly through where her bangs stick to her face.

"... Does he actually get paid to do this?" An amused voice wonders.

He looks up to see Whizzer standing in the archway, watching curiously and taking slow sips from his glass. When Trina sees him she quickly wipes her face and mumbles something about leftovers while she flees to the kitchen, leaving the three of them in her wake.

He clears his throat. “Sorry, I was just checking in. It’s getting a little late.”

“Right, right.” Mendel stands from his chair. “You should get going. I’ll see you guys out.”

“I lived here for eleven years, Mendel. I know where the door is.”

He shrugs uncomfortably at the jab. “I know, just… trying to be nice.”

“Sure you were.”

“Okay!” Whizzer interjects. “Mendel, it was nice meeting you.”, he says with a hand outstretched.

Hesitantly, he takes it. “You too.”

Conspiratorially, Whizzer leans in to whisper too loud into Mendel’s ear. “So, if he’s a rock and she’s a puddle- what exactly am I in this scenario?”

Marvin and Mendel freeze; realizing how much he must have heard. After a stilted, considering pause; Mendel responds.

“A stick.”

Whizzer snorts, “Oh, how flattering. I’ll know to uh, Lay off the diet pills.”

Mendel huffs out a small, cold laugh. “Not quite what I meant. A stick; you provide enough friction against the rock you’ll get a spark-“ Whizzer raises his eyebrows at the suggestion of _friction_ which Mendel pointedly does not indulge. “enough of a spark you’ll get a flame, and then a full-blown fire. And then it’s up to the puddle to put it out with its water.”

Only Marvin knows him well enough to see his charm falter in surprise before quickly falling back into place. He evidently doesn’t have a joke for that one. “Huh. Didn’t know they had courses on metaphors in med school.”, he says awkwardly. “Goodnight, _doctor_.” He claps him on the shoulder before the two of them head to the front.

“Are you coming?” Marvin calls when he realizes Mendel is staying in place, hands in his pockets.

“I think I’m going to stick around a while longer.”, he says slowly.

“It’s after nine.”

He smiles and shrugs. “I know.”, the reply is short and pointed. “Goodnight, Marvin.”

He doesn’t respond in kind, just stares at his- Jesus Christ not only his shrink- his fucking _friend,_ his _Brutus,_ looking back at him like Marvin is an unwanted guest in his own life until Whizzer tugs on his wrist and pulls him to the door, hooking an arm around his shoulders.

“Well, that was interesting.” He awkwardly huffs a breath. “Keys?”

He stares at the door.

_“Marvin.”_

“I. Yeah, in a minute.”

He gives an annoyed sigh and sits on the stoop. “If these pants get ruined by dried homeless person pee because you’re having a meltdown, you’re buying me new ones.”

“Yeah, okay.” He replies absently, leering over the railing to peer into the townhouse’s kitchen window just in time to see a head of neatly curled hair bob out of view. He’s too focused on the shadows he sees swirling on the walls of the interior to see the alarm on Whizzer’s face at his lack of fire. The light in the kitchen is turned off as other pop on like whack-mole, telling a story of movement through the barest of details. Jason’s bedroom light goes out, the living room lights are brought up from their dimmed state. Marvin hoists himself over to sit on the right side of the iron railing, right beneath the large window donned with the sheer curtains Trina used to clean the lint off of weekly. He absently notes that she seems to be slacking.

Jason is carrying some kind of box and excitedly lays it out on the coffee table, sitting on his knees and setting up its contents as Mendel and Trina trail in. He has a palm delicately placed between her shoulder blades, so gently appropriately that it’s so _telling_ in how hard he is trying to be gentle and appropriate. As appropriate as he can be, past dinner time in the home of not one, but two of his patients playing what looks like Monopoly with _Marvin’s_ family. Making himself at home with the family he _made_ and _provides for;_ like he’s supposed to, in the home he pays for. They rarely did these things together. Even when things were good, before Whizzer, before he started slipping. Why? Because they didn’t want to spend time with him? Because he wasn’t worth the trouble? Because he was nothing more than someone to indulge and tolerate because he paid the bills and drove Jason to comic book stores in the summers?

And now they have someone to do all those things for them that they enjoy spending time with?

Someone who- if and when he fully weasels his way in, will fully take over everything Marvin was and wanted to be, except he will be gentle. And helpful. And teach his son how to throw things, and pleasure his wife the way she always wanted. All the things he could never be or do. His successes only amounted to a poor imitation of an image of father and husband that it turns out all along could be fulfilled by a small, weak, awkward, beaded-jewelry wearing man-child. Who will pay his family’s bills with the tens of thousands of dollars Marvin has given him over the past six years. Who will leave Marvin useless to them.

“If you looked like literally any other person, someone would have called the cops ages ago, peeping tom.”

His shoes touch the concrete and he feels himself slide down the iron bars until his back rests against them and his knees are drawn up to his chest.

Whizzer sighs. “Are you done?”

_No._ “Yeah.”, he replies with no intention of moving.

“Can we at least sit in the car?”

Nothing.

“Marvin.” a scoff. _“Jesus,”_

He climbs up the step and shoves his hand into Marvin’s jacket pocket, grabbing the keys. “You finish up your tantrum here, okay? I’ll be in the car.”

He wonders what would happen if he got angry enough. If he could bend the metal digging into his spine. He wonders if he shoved his head between the bars and got stuck badly enough if he’d asphyxiate right here on their stoop while his family plays games, unknowing.

He gets up and walks to the car. When they get home, Whizzer gets annoyed enough at him that he leaves, and this time he doesn’t come back until the next day.

His next session with Mendel is mostly the two of them sitting in silence while Marvin’s pockets slowly drip empty, but he can’t bring himself to leave or speak until the clock hits the fifty-minute mark.

He tells the receptionist on the way out that he and the doctor have reached their goals, and to cancel all of his future sessions.

He wonders if Whizzer will be there when he gets home. Sticky, congealed sauce on a plate but in front of a charming smile from someone who makes him feel like he’s worth something. The only semblance of a family he has left.

He isn’t. So Marvin breaks a plate when he arrives. So Marvin doesn’t eat and goes to bed alone.

* * *

He didn’t know he was capable of this.

She’s not crying anymore but her face is red, not just from his hand. She’s shaking as she holds their son’s face in her hands, chin trembling like he might cry as she leans down to kiss his forehead and smile forcefully. She tells him to give them a minute and he obliges, shooting quickly past Marvin as he stands frozen, Mendel at his side, effectively backing him into a corner; thin limbs ready to kick Marvin out if he needs to.

Because Marvin is a person protection is needed from.

Because Marvin just hit something other than a wall for the first time in his life and it was the face who cried with him when Jason was born and used to gently kiss him on the cheek to say goodnight.

He doesn’t know how it happened. It’s like somehow, Marvin was a screaming little boy again and the only real way to get someone to listen to him was to do something drastic enough to need consequences. Only now Marvin is taller than five feet and weighs more than one-seventy-five. Only now Marvin is thirty-three years old and has money and power and hands that could no-longer-just- _theoretically_ hurt someone. And the consequences are no longer grounding and specialists and boarding schools- but potentially protection orders and family court and rehab. He doesn’t have a mother to scream at him and tell him he’s an embarrassment and give him a hand to help him up after she knocks him down again.

He doesn’t have anything anymore. Because the person he took his shit out on when he finally snapped is possibly the only person who has ever loved him unconditionally.

“Are you going to say something?” she says roughly.

His head is spinning. “I’m sorry.”

“You already said that.” Mendel is standing between them, watching him. Ever the mediator. If that’s even what you could call it. “Anything else?” she asks, desperation seeping into her voice. She’s trying so hard not to cry in front of him that he lets out a shuddering gasp of his own and feels his eyes flood with warmth and salt.

“No.” He shrugs, hysteria clear in his movements. “I have nothing else to say for myself.” he wipes his eyes and tries to catch his breath. “Are you okay?”

“No.”, she says and Marvin shuts his eyes right and feels his cheeks drip. “But _I’ll live.”_

He nods tightly, trying and failing to keep his composure as she throws his words back at him.

He doesn’t see as she dutifully wipes away a tear of her own. “Two weeks.” he looks up questioningly. “Two weeks, you figure your shit out. Then maybe you can take him out on weekends. Go to the park, get ice cream, or something. Start um. Rebuilding.” _God, she sounds like Mendel,_ he thinks before it hits him what she’s saying.

“I can see him?” The hope he feels is blind and thoughtless.

She looks oddly devastated at the question. “Do you know how much he talks about you when you’re not here?” she whispers. “He loves you. _So much.”_ she shrugs helplessly. “I can’t take that away from him.” His head is swirling all he feels is _love love love_ at the simple _mention_ of his son. “But you need to prove that you’ll be good to him, that you’ll get your _shit_ together.”

“I would _never_ hurt him.”

Her shoulders shake with her voice. “Did you ever imagine you’d hurt me?”

And- she’s right. She’s so fucking right. He feels like a bucket of ice water just got dumped over his head but he’s in a bucket and he’s drowning in it. He knows he looks like a disaster and it makes him feel like he’s choking when he sees her hand reach out like she still wants to comfort him through all this, and _fuck, what has he done?_

“We’ll figure it out. Just give it some time and- eventually, we’ll be back to our arrangement. Weekends.”

“Thank you.” he can barely hear himself through his relief. “ _Thank you, Trina._ I will make this work, I’ll be better, okay? I promise.”

She lets out a sob in earnest. “Please don’t break this one.” she sounds desperate. “I don’t want him to lose his dad.”

It’s a rare instance where he truly wishes he could hug her. “Me neither.” he can think of nothing else to say.

She takes out her handkerchief and wipes her eyes. “He’s in his room.”

“Okay.”

“You’ve said what you needed to say to me. Now you need to talk to him about what he just saw.”

Mendel is still there, magically holding himself together and still looking ready to kick him out if he steps the slightest bit out of line. Marvin has never been so grateful for his presence.

He works on breathing slowly and exhales with a shudder. “I’ll talk to him.”

She nods, and it feels final. He knows they’ll see each other again. He’ll see her when he leaves, he’ll see her in a couple of weekends. They have a plan. It still feels like he’s walking away from the best and maybe only real friend he’s ever had.

He procrastinates and reels on his way to Jason’s new bedroom in the new apartment. The past three hours are just a whirlwind of rage he can barely remember. He tries to remember why he did it, what he felt, _what was he thinking?_ All that comes up is pure rage and dejection and desperation. Remembering smeared mascara and a temple bathroom and Trina crying as she read her vows.

Jesus, why didn't he hit _Mendel?!_ Because a subconscious part of him thought he’d forgive him for hurting her, but wouldn’t forgive him for hurting _him?_ Did he _want_ to hurt her?

Because she matters in a way that Mendel doesn’t?

Because she’s moving on and he’s taken fifty steps backward?

He arrives at the door that blends in well with the wood-paneled walls of the unfamiliar home. The door is adorned with a new novelty sign which Mendel must have gotten for him. He knocks rhythmically, five times so Jason knows it’s him. He remembers the fortress of his own room at Jason’s age, fist-shaped holes in the walls regularly patched without a word, and crumpled up pieces of paper strewn about the floor. Some in embers from when he found the words written especially embarrassing or egregious. Jason’s room is messier, in a way a soon-to-be teen boy’s room should be. Clothes, essays, and games.

The door opens, and Marvin takes a step forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hoo boy, we made it to act 1 folks! just to be super clear in my intentions for this chapter and the fic as a whole, this is my exploration of marvin’s motivations and not meant to excuse or defend his actions in act 1. marvin is such a flawed character, who is capable of so much garbage and so much love. he is a fascinating, and RANCID fictional man and i love thinking and writing about him. any negativity towards any other characters in this fic are courtesy of his interpretations of the actions of others, not my own. anyway, i hope you’ve enjoyed reading about my interpretations of him a fraction as much as i’ve enjoyed writing this. final chapter is to come.
> 
> also s/o to my parent's therapist dr. d who sounds like a great guy and unintentionally gave me a lot of material for this chapter. he actually reads from a book of jewish jokes to break the ice when things get too upsetting and honestly? what a mendel thing to do


	5. V - intermission (i know you)

Marvin moves to the upper east side. It’s an average ninth-floor apartment in a high-class building. Two bedrooms- one for him and one hosting an empty twin bed.

The building is stuffy and indulgent, but it’s close to work, and not too far from Mendel and Trina’s. It’s the kind of place a man of his age and income should live. A place populated by wealthy retirees with empty nests, DINKs, and aging bachelors. Maybe even some other _permanent bachelors,_ like himself. He imagines it's akin to what his parent’s so-called work apartment was like back in the day. Their place in the city for the times when they were too busy with meetings to make the commute over the river (always). Who knows, it could be the same building. He was never invited to stay. He wonders how they furnished it. If it looked lived in, in a way the house in Jersey never did. Pristine and barren, save the holes in the plaster that were wordlessly patched not long after he made them.

He has a feeling if this was his parent’s building, they wouldn’t be too crazy about Marvin’s neighbors.

Two women living together is far from notable or uncommon, especially with the ever-increasing cost of living in the city. It is odd, however in a building like his. Where there are few- if any roommates. There are no struggling friends new to the city in this borough. There are no residents who couldn’t afford to live alone, and they are no different. A small business owner and a doctor. So why are they here?

It starts with a strawberry pie.

She knocked on his door prepared with a foil-covered pan and an unabashed smile on a weekend afternoon. The fourth weekend post- the incident. On the fourth weekend in which Jason didn’t come to stay the night.

 _Neighborly_ is not a word commonly used in the city. At least not by him. It's a myth that belongs to Levittown. New York is a vibrant community. A patchwork of culture and history sewed with love into the cracked, piss-stained concrete. A city where every neighbor is a stranger and every stranger is a neighbor. In his home, no one does _this._

“I used kosher fat for the crust.”, she told him sheepishly as she carefully placed the tin on the cluttered countertop. “Not to assume anything! I saw your last name in the lobby and just-“

“-Assumed?” he replied, more amused than anything.

Her bubbly smile flickered as the pride in her chest visibly deflated. “No, no- I’m sorry.” she laughed, nervous. “I’m trying to transition my business to fully kosher. It’s been a little hard to source ingredients so I know they’re safe but I think it’ll be worth it in the long run. Charlotte is Jewish and prefers to eat kosher so once I started cooking for her all the time it just made sense to get in the habit of always doing it, y’know?”

She tried and failed not to let her eyes wander the empty space as she rambled. “The doctor, right?” he asked. Her head shot back up from where she was inspecting the still-unpacked boxes near her feet. “I’ve seen her around a few times, leaving for work, I think.” He’d never spoken to her. From the first time they made eye contact, they followed the exchange most neighbors do. Nod, acknowledge, and stay out of each other's way.

“Yeah,” she said almost dreamily. “she works long days.”

“I bet.” After an uncomfortable lull, she opened her mouth and fidgeted, hesitating. He beat her to the punch “I haven't really stuck to eating kosher since I was a kid- but I uh, appreciate the effort, - sorry what was it?”

“Cordelia.”

“Right. I’m Marvin.” He extended a hand. She loosely covered it with her own.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Marvin.” Her gaze remained intent as she pulled back, expression pointed. Mildly bewildered, He stared back, raising his eyebrows questioningly. She quirked a timid little smile in response and pushed the pie tin with a _woosh_ sound so it sat in front of him.

Trina never dared to ask how he liked her food. She'd bake and experiment frequently, leaving a tray on the table without a word.

For so much of his life with her, she was white-noise. A voice to block out. A pair of hands to make his life easier and so much harder. There was a year when she made it so difficult for him to ignore her. Always asking, pushing, crying, _begging._ And then nothing.

It had never once occurred to him that she did any of it for his express attention.

Marvin was fresh out of fight. Had been for weeks. Not for lack of anger or grief. No- he'd never wanted to scream and cry and throw fucking furniture across a suite more. But his arms continued to lay limp at his sides, lacking the passion to even form a fist. Tongue dulled and throat sore, seemingly due to an unprecedented lack of screaming. He wanted desperately to build a barricade. Resign himself into his largest hoodie and pretend he still smelled expensive sampler cologne on his bed.

He made a promise. To be the man he refused, yet yearned to be. To put an end to the war that's raged within himself for as long as he could remember. He thought acknowledgment would bring peace, but it only grew worse to compensate. Turned the battle of Princeton into the battle of Normandy.

His war didn't end with a white flag. It ended with Hiroshima. And it was time to sweep away the ash of the dead off the sidewalk and begin to rebuild. Indulging a stranger seemed as good a place as any to start.

The filling was thick and syrupy- far sweeter than his tastes- but laced with a slight bitterness. Like burnt sugar.

“It’s a new recipe I’m working on.”, she said, bashful.

With some effort, he swallowed the thick mess of pulp, seeds, and sugar. Her feet shuffled, one kicking out to lightly tap the side of the kitchen island rhythmically, poorly imitating patience waiting for his reaction. _Maybe God is real,_ he wondered. _This is almost too obvious of a test._

“Not bad.” is what he goes with. "A little sweet," he adds. "But uh- the crust is good." It's certainly an understatement, but still mostly true.

Her shoulders sagged in what looked like a combination of relief and disappointment, but she still smiled gratefully. He wondered how long it had been since he made someone smile out of more than politeness.

It's a start.

He didn’t see much of her after that. Jason gets the rest of the pie when they meet at the park, Mendel- wearing a hat, which for some reason he found deeply unsettling- watching from a bench. A week and a half later he slices his hand open cleaning up a picture frame that broke in the move. He dug the shards out from his skin as best as he could with no tweezers and washes it out before he realized he had nothing to cover it. Applying pressure with a piece of paper towel, he walked around the corner to Duane Reade for some antibiotic ointment and bandages. He ended up wrapping his palm tightly in the fluorescent white bathroom before heading back home. When he reached the building, He saw a slightly familiar face and dark head of hair approaching the landing above him. It's been so long since he's seen someone smile at him that wasn't a cashier. He tries something new.

He catches up. And he's neighborly.

“Just got out of work?”

She jumped a little bit as she glanced over her shoulder, not relaxing in the slightest when she sees who it is. “Yeah, busy night.” She adjusted the strap of her large bag before turning back, He doesn't notice the way she quickened.

“I bet,” he said amiably; because that’s a thing people say. He waved his bandaged palm out to show her. “Something in the air tonight.”

She did a double-take over her shoulder, gait faltering as she caught sight of the blood already seeping through the cotton. “Jeez…," she said with a grimace, tilting her head towards him to get a better look. "You alright?”

“Yeah, yeah.” he brushed off her polite concern as he unlocked his door. “Hurt myself unpacking. I’ll be fine.” Unlocking his door, he remembered what’s been taking up room on his drying rack all week. “Oh- Wait here a second?”

He emerged less than a minute later with the washed and emptied pie tin.

“Figured I should probably give this back.”

Her smile was tentative as she took it from him. “Thanks." The words that follow are slow and deliberate. Not a question, _definitely_ a challenge. “She said you liked it.”

“... I said it wasn’t bad.”

“And?” she raised her eyebrows.

After a brief moment of considering whether he should find a new temple or not, he shrugs. “It wasn’t. Not really. My son ate most of it. And well- I’m thirty and haven’t cooked a successful meal in my life. So as far as I’m concerned she’s a culinary savant.”

Her gaze is cold and assessing and _painfully_ familiar. For a moment Marvin is seven and being spanked with a wooden spoon. He is fourteen and the led of the pencil he's chewing on is poking sharply into his palette as he tries to keep his breathing steady. Marvin is thirty and is trying not to meet the eyes raking over him from across a foggy room.

Marvin is Thirty-one and having a pleasant chat with a neighbor who nods tersely, satisfied by his answer. She leaned in conspiratorially; as if trusting him with a secret. Her voice hushed as she spoke, “The thing is, she’s stubborn as hell and refuses to reference actual recipes. Says it’s cheating. So she spends months working on one thing until she gets it right. And- when she gets it right, she gets it right. The problem is that when she’s cooking at home she’s workshopping, not making the tried and true shit people pay for.”

Which… explained a lot. He put his hands in his pocket and winced at the dull ache he felt at the brush of pressure. “Well as I mentioned, my standards for home-cooked meals are pretty low, right now. I'm happy to be the dog you feed scraps to under the proverbial table.”

"Huh," After a beat, she shrugged and laughed lightly. “Alright, well- I’m sure she’ll be thrilled. She’s always looking for more mouths to feed. It’s about time someone in the building took her up on her offers.”

“Could be worse. I haven't done much mingling, but the shrine on G7 is enough to let me know we've got some real duds here when it comes to potential company.”

To his surprise and- seemingly hers, as well- she loudly barked out a laugh and immediately covered her mouth and glanced around the hall, as if to make sure no one was going to peek their head out and catch her smiling.

She searched the wide pockets of her coat, her hand emerging with something clasped in its palm. With her free hand, she brought a finger to her lips and winked. He took the item from her extended palm- a large pin embellished with Jimmy Carter’s face- with a laugh and quiet thank you.

Cordelia brought him cookies the next day. And stir fry the week after that, Followed by soup, pasta, and asparagus. Soon they built a pattern. Thursday evenings, she’d leave him a few things for the weekend, and go through a recipe with him. Then the weekend would arrive and he’d be alone with his son, something he will never ever take for granted again- and she would be nowhere to be found.

“Charlotte likes you,” she said in one of their impromptu get-togethers, sounding far too cryptic and suspicious for someone sporting legwarmers and whipped cream on her nose. “She’s usually neutral about or is skeptical of most people at first impression. Unless you’re me, she couldn’t resist my sparkling personality. I don’t know what you did, but it worked. You're very lucky, she's the sweetest and most affectionate person I've ever met, you know? Very glass-half-full, always thinking of others. Like recently she's been undergoing this super rigorous anti-allergy treatment just because she knows I want a cat." Her voice gets higher and higher as she speaks, turning into an excited squeal as she talks about her _roommate._

He tries to compare this Charlotte and the Charlotte he watched her glare at and do the _I'm-watching-you_ hand signal to Mrs. Kominsky's geriatric cat last week. “Uh huh, that's... really sweet of her.”

She blushes and waves him off. “So… what did you do?”

He wracked his brain over their brief conversation that night and finds himself with few answers. “I… insulted the Ronald Reagan posters on the door down the hall. Oh- and I complimented your baking.”

She snapped her fingers “That’ll do it.”

Charlotte, for how little they'd interacted was a constant in his and Cordelia's conversations. Spoken of frequently and unwaveringly fondly, in language Marvin is painfully and intimately acquainted with. Little things. The switching between gushing over her success, her drive, the little things she does that make Cordelia’s day better- and flippant remarks about how they’re very close, and they’ve known each other a long time. Things that most people likely wouldn’t think twice about. Marvin noticed. Like the way she never referred to Charlotte as anything but Charlotte. Never her roommate, never her friend. Never her lover. Just that they live together. The familiarity of it pulsed and ached, picking at a wound that was barely beginning to scab over. They always stuck with _friends_. Because it was practical, familiar, and not untrue. Not to mention that he’s still not sure if they were ever on the same page about exactly what they were to each other. But a year had to count for something, right?

Right?

Marvin is terrible with people when it’s not in a working context. So while he knew there was a chance of him having misread the situation- he was confident the girl at least had a crush, whether she realized it or not. Not to mention Charlotte came off as pretty butch to him, based on the limited interactions he’s had with her. Not that he would know. It was just another small thing, that piled up on top of all the other small things that ping in that part of his brain. The one whose purpose is to fight for survival, to stay alive and safe living as someone like him. It’s a lot different from the cues he used to follow when looking for hookups. That's all about being in the right place, meeting subtle glances, following tilts of the head. Seeking out connection, a kindred spirit in desperation and discretion. The setting is so different, but the idea is the same. Like two of them are speaking a language that Marvin never realized he picked up along the way. He wonders if they read him back. He doesn’t ask. He doesn't volunteer. He’s not sure how he would have answered if someone asked him.

Instead, he drops encouragement here and there. He tells her that _they’re a really good team_. That they must really care about one another. That it's a miracle that they haven’t gotten sick of each other, with how much time they spend together. She replies with unaffected smiles and shrugs before continuing her gushing.

"She worked so hard to get to where she is. I swear she didn't sleep for a good week when she was doing her residency. It paid off. All the guys in her program hated her because she kicked their asses when it came to diagnostics-"

“Y’know, the two of you are closer than my ex-wife and I when we were in our best years." He blurts out during a rant, a slight edge bleeding through his voice. The truth is, that tidbit said far more about his marriage than it did his neighbors, but she didn’t need to know that.

... Or maybe she did, considering the expression on her face at his words as she froze, slowly tilting up from her glass of lemonade to his face, the most serious he'd ever seen her as she cautiously looked over his shoulder at the door. _You were right, mom,_ he thinks. _I can't do anything without fucking up._

"Can I get you something stronger?" he offered, chest tight and hands hovering around her glass with a smile he hoped seemed casual. The laugh he got in response was near silent, as she let out a breath he neither of them had realized she was holding. He makes a vodka soda.

The next day, she comes to his door with Charlotte pointedly in tow to invite him over for dinner and games next door. Marvin could almost see out of the corner of his eye Mendel aggressively giving him a thumbs up, looking ready to spout some bullshit about branching out. He almost turns them down to spite Fake-Mendel before he sees Cordelia’s hopeful face and remembers that he’s burned just about every bridge he’s ever built and he _likes_ these girls.

So he goes. He brings liquor and Cordelia makes pasta that Charlotte specifically asked her to make. Marvin makes a mental note to thank her for sparing him; next time they get a moment alone.

Their apartment is modern, feminine, and refined. Abstract art on the walls and fuzzy throw pillows and blankets. It feels right. It feels like them. Marvin has been putting off unpacking for weeks. The most decorated room is Jason’s, now that he’s staying over again. Marvin told him he could do whatever he wanted with it so long as Marvin kept his security deposit. An offer he is taking as far as he possibly can.

(He’s glad he has because now on the nights Marvin can't sleep there's no child for him to rock and no one to give a reach-around, but he can sit on the twin bed by himself, and consider how long it will be until Jason tears down the posters and sells the baseball cards. Wondering how much of his life Marvin is missing one hundred and twenty hours a week.)

He thinks of his first apartment, the one his parents paid for throughout the first few years of college. He left it bare and empty, except for his desk, It was a place to sleep and eat. Now, almost fifteen years later, Marvin is on his own again. He decides this time, looking at their ornate record player, he’s going to make sure his place looks like it's his. Whoever the hell that may be. He can start with every school picture Jason that’s ever been taken. Rugs and curtains. Hell, he’ll let Jason tape up the posters of that model girl he likes with the Italian name. Trina might kill him, but in all honesty, he likes that Jason wants them. He likes that his son acts like a somewhat normal pre-teen boy. He’s still terrifying, has a horrible attitude, and is smart enough to make Marvin fearful for what he’ll do to the world when he enters it as a man, but- he likes girls and sports and Springsteen. He complains about school a normal amount (though it’s about classes being a waste of his time because he somehow knows everything already) and now has a few people that he classifies as friends, Even if he also considers them rivals. He doesn't want to see pouty, scantily-clad women in the slightest, but it’s a reminder that he hasn’t permanently broken his son. That he can be a normal kid.

Maybe someday he'll put up his own equivalent. The 24x32 monstrosities he couldn't bring himself to throw out in the move. The elephants already unpacked and collecting dust in the back of his new, too-spacious closet. A housewarming/leaving your family present, before Whizzer officially moved into the old place. Marvin remembers the night Whizzer shoved himself in the door holding a bottle of cabernet and handed the canvases to him unwrapped, accidentally making himself cry by trying to keep from laughing, waiting for Marvin’s reaction.

(He waited until Marvin had calmed down and agreed not to throw them out to give him his stolen credit card back. It was a good night. His heart feels like a towel that’s been wrung out as Cordelia hands him a drink and he remembers why he can't think about the good nights anymore.)

They talk politics. The neighborhood. Work. He’s not sure if he’s ever had a meal like this before. Where the conversation is effortless, and the words are kind and curious. Where he feels like an adult worthy of someone's time, not a child tugging at his parent's pant leg begging for attention. They ask about Jason, dissect his life as tactfully as they can. He tells them facts with no context. Divorce. Partial custody. A wedding he wasn't invited to. They’ll see Jason around on weekends, pretty soon. They carry their own lives into the discussion as diplomatically as they did his. They’re not trying to hide anything, but their words are still careful. They touch, they sit close- but don’t kiss. They talk about how they met, not how they got together. _They're not pushing their luck,_ he realizes.

“So how’s the bachelor life treating you?” Cordelia asks in a tone that clearly says _dish_ , as she deals them their cards.

He shrugs as he picks up his hand. “I’m making do. It feels weird. I’m not used to having so much time to myself.” He lays down three eights.

“All alone with your thoughts?” Charlotte drawls as she plays a run.

“Unfortunately,” he says, gulping down his wine.

“Well,” Cordelia sing-songs, contemplating her hand. “time to yourself can be good. But- you don’t have to be alone. It's not too early to put yourself out there.”

He laughs uncomfortably as he remembers why he's never been one for friendships. “As much as I’m going out of my mind all by myself- I don’t think I’m quite there yet.”

She scrunches up her face in sympathy. “Pretty bad breakup, huh?”

He lets out a shaky breath at the reminder. Apparently, spending time being social won’t keep him from thinking about it. “Yeah.” He’s got nothing to play. He watches Charlotte's steady hands as she reorganizes her cards.

“I can’t imagine. I mean- divorce, that’s a huge change. Especially considering you were together for such a lo-“ she cuts herself off when she sees him shaking his head.

“Not Trina. That was just- weird- it wasn’t-“ He sighs, and waves his wrist vaguely. He doesn’t know how to say what he means. He doesn’t know why he’s elaborating. It’s his turn. He can't seem to put together a sequence.

“Oh,” Cordelia says lightly. “So, someone else then?” She’s trying to make herself sound casual, interest obviously piqued. Charlotte looks bored peering over her cards. "Post-divorce fling?"

"Kind of," is the best he can come up with to reply, in the hopes she'll take the hint and redirect- or at least buy him some time to the strength to focus enough on anything that isn't _big hands harsh words cold eyes making him feel warm to his toes_.

"Complicated?" He can hear the poorly-masked curiosity in Charlotte's voice as she decides she's no longer above this line of questioning and her tone of voice is so reminiscent of- _"So, where do your wife and kids think you are right now, Mr. black-jacket-brown-shoes?"_

He thinks he nods as his gaze on his cards becomes less and less focused. Distantly, he notes the two women look at each other in alarm. He realizes half a second later this is because very suddenly, and without warning; his neighbors have become the third and fourth women respectively whom Marvin has cried in front of.

The room is silent and still aside from the tremulous movement of his shoulders and the soft crooning of a female folk singer on the record player, playing so quietly he can hear the scratch of the needle; and making the choking sound he makes when he tries to inhale seem all the more piercing. Less than a second later it's forgotten, overpowered by movement and fussing and hushed _oh_ _honey_ s. He feels a hand on his shoulder, followed by another placed delicately on his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, all. its been a hot minute.  
> so i lied, this is not quite the end. ive had a bit of block lately, exacerbated by work. the majority of the final chapter has been written for months, but its felt forced, and the majority of the word count came from this first section. it hit me just the other day that i do not need to go right from act 1 to act 2, and that it makes more sense to break format and make that a chapter of its own, since ya boi is breaking his format for the first time, yknow?? i hope i did our beloved lesbians justice. i promise the last chapter wont take three months. thanks for sticking with me


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